This story takes place in a universe I created according to the set of rules described in the "Portuguese Crime Reduction Act," in which, in a modern Portugal, penalties for non-violent crimes have been changed to corporal punishment and/or slavery. All the cases described actually happened, but with different people than the characters. I don't know if the couple caught making love was white, black, or mixed, nor do I know why the lady was caught driving at 120km/h on Avenida da República, all of that was adapted by me. The boy who vandalized the statue represents a collective of vandals.
I'm not a person with a great imagination; I just adapt reality to my fantasies.
I hope you enjoy reading it and that you share your opinion. Thank you, and I apologize for any errors in English.
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"Good afternoon, Your Honor. It's been a long time since I've seen you--five or six years?" asked the man who I had once known as a 20-year-old boy fresh out of Police Academy.
"Nine years, Manuel, or should I say Sub-chief Barata?" I replied, observing the stripes on his uniform.
"Manuel is fine, Your Honor. I enjoyed seeing you on television. The look on the former banker's face when you sent him to auction! Do you think you'll adapt back to this police court?"
"This is temporary, until a permanent replacement is appointed. I volunteered, and it's good to return to my roots." The position of judge in the police court was typically filled either by new judges on their way to other posts, or by social crusaders like the late Judge João Albuquerque. He had taught me what wasn't learned in universities and believed it was a mission to dispense justice at the most basic level. "Ricardo, if you punish the drunkard, he can't go home to beat his wife and children," he used to tell me. Now I was back there, and on a Friday no less.
I had reviewed the legal code: the people I would judge wouldn't face death sentences or imprisonment. If I remembered correctly, most would be traffic cases, drunk drivers, and disorderly drunks. Anything carrying a sentence of more than 100 lashes or 2 years of slavery would be tried in the regular court.
The Legislator had decided to abolish fines and replace most of them with corporal punishment, or "...whatever the magistrate deems appropriate for each case..." The law was left deliberately vague, but lashes were the most common punishment.
In what had been João's office, I put on my black robe and adjusted my tie.
His belongings were in a cardboard box waiting for his family to collect them. Still on the wall was a photo of him with Manuel and me, from when I still had hair and a clean-shaven face. "Ricardo, you need to grow a beard, you look like a kid. Look at Manuel with that Stalin-like moustache. A police officer needs a moustache, and a judge needs a beard, especially a young judge like you." Manuel had shaved off his mustache, and my beard had gained some white hairs.
I had just finished drinking a glass of port in memory of my former mentor when Manuel knocked on the office door.
"Everything is ready. The cameras are set up. Judge João preferred to administer punishments in the courtroom rather than at the Pelourinho--it's more efficient and still public."
"Thank you, I'll be there in 5 minutes." I would have preferred the punishments to be carried out at the Pelourinho, a nostalgic preference of mine for the past, but truthfully it was more practical this way, and the Internet ensured that the requirement for punishments to be public was fulfilled. I took a deep breath and walked down the hallway connecting my office to the courtroom.
When I entered the room, Manuel and his two assistants clicked the heels of their shoes together, and Manuel announced in a deep, severe voice: "The session of the 2nd Police Court of the Lisbon District is now in session, all rise."
I surveyed the room. Many things had changed; the main difference was the camera system and the steel pole on my right. It could have passed for a stripper pole, but it was thicker and had holes where various accessories could be inserted. Even so, I preferred the old stone Pelourinhos with a cross or coat of arms at the top and four metal arms from which criminals were suspended.
"It seems you're the old-fashioned one, Ricardo. We must evolve," I could hear João's words reprimanding me for my thoughts.
But I couldn't linger in nostalgia, as the court clerk was handing me my first case.
Tiago Martins dos Reis, 19 years old. Vandalism and Verbal Abuse.
The file came complete with images of said Tiago painting red handprints on the statue of Father António Vieira and writing "End slavery. Decolonization now." I observed the defendant: a young man with long hair, a T-shirt bearing Che's image, stubble, and the appearance of someone who hadn't bathed for at least a week.
"This court is fascist! You have no right to judge me!" protested the pseudo-revolutionary while the court officer pushed him toward the defendant's bench. At 180 cm and at least 120 kg, Officer Cristina was a woman who, even without her uniform, would keep most men in line.
"Mr. Tiago, I'm not interested in your political ideas, but if you continue shouting in my court, you will be severely punished." No sooner had I issued my warning than Officer Cristina gave him a strong blow with her baton.
"Aaah! FU..." he protested, having the clarity of mind to stop himself.
"Not that it matters for your sentence, but why did you attack the statue of Father António Vieira?" I asked him.
"He was a selective enslaver." I took a deep breath at his ignorance. "He defended the enslavement of African peoples to protect the Indians." He answered with a voice full of the certainty that only ignorance allows. I counted to ten in my head and remained faithful to my promise not to alter the sentence I had in mind.
"Mr. Tiago, this court finds you guilty of vandalism, aggravated by insults and abuse against law enforcement officers."
I signaled for the two officers to strip the convicted man, who protested. Without success. Men were stripped and women had to undress themselves but anyone found guilty would stand naked before the court, prior to sentencing.
"In the name of the Portuguese Republic, I sentence you to 10 lashes on the buttocks per day until the statue and the entire Misericórdia Square are clean of all graffiti."
"I didn't graffiti the square or the church. How am I supposed to clean everything?" he asked while the two officers roughly secured him to the pole.
"The 'how' doesn't concern the court. For each day that passes without Misericórdia Square, its monuments, and street furniture being cleaned, you will receive 10 lashes. Sub-chief Barata, you may carry out the sentence!" Miguel removed a leather whip from the accessories box and proceeded with the lashes in a professional manner.
Each lash was applied with about 10 seconds between them, during which the convict alternated between piercing screams and desperate pleas.
SLASH! "AAAHH!" CRACK! "Please, stop!" WHIP! "AAAIII!" SNAP! "Mercy!" SLASH! The boy let out a guttural scream, tears and saliva running down his face. CRACK! "That's enough!" WHIP! A muffled scream as he bit his lip. SNAP! "No, No!" SLASH! Now he was just sobbing, his body trembling.
